Ways in Which Fudge Meets an Untimely Demise
by lalia gariv
Summary: From the Scribbles from History of Magic list on FictionAlley '50 Ways in Which Cornelius Fudge Meets an Untimely Demise' comes a series of vignettes based on a few points from the list. Be warned, things may get a bit silly...
1. The list

**50** Ways in Which Cornelius Fudge Meets an Untimely Demise ****

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or any character, place or object belonging to the Harry Potterverse. Or any reference to other literary characters, movie, tv or book. I just like killing off Fudge.

Author's Note: This is the original list I created for Fudge's Untimely Demise that I posted at FictionAlley about 4 or 5 months ago. It is from this list that the chapters are based upon.

Hey there. Well, one day I was bored. No, sorry, I was _really_ bored, as you are when you are learning something, so a very evil idea popped into my head - what are ways that Minister for Magic, Cornelius Fudge, the character you love to hate could meet his ultimate doom? So, here's what I've come up with, hope you all like them!

1. He is killed by Voldemort because he didn't believe the Dark Lord had returned. The twat.

2. He is attacked by a mad hippogriff.

3. He is murdered by the Bulgarian Minister for Magic for not remembering his name.

4. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley reveal 'what Fudge is' and he is sentenced to a Dementor's Kiss. (A/N Well, I think Fudge is a Death Eater, so that's what I reckon the Weasley's were on about)

5. The Dementor who kissed Crouch Jr. went on a kissing frenzy (Guess who got kissed).

6. He forgets to jump a missing step at Hogwarts and falls to his doom.

7. He meets Fluffy. Need I say more?

8. He meets the Basilisk and is forced to spend eternity sharing the bathroom with Myrtle. (A/N I know the Basilisk's dead, but I still thought this was funny. Anyways, what's not to say that there's another Basilisk hanging around?)

9. He splinches himself while Apparating and is hacked to death by God-fearing Muggles.

10. He is put on the stake for practising witchcraft.

11. He is murdered as a part of a Muggle government conspiracy to detect and clone magic DNA.

12. He is run over by a passing broom manufacturing company truck when he ventures into Muggle London.

13. Filch caught him wandering around the school after lights out and gave him is own form of punishment (torture anyone?).

14. He is decapitated as a part of a 'Rid the World of Lime Green Bowler Hats' demonstration.

15. He meets Sirius Black. (A/N Revenge for not believing his innocence. Highly unlikely to happen, I know, but a girl can dream!)

16. He catches a glimpse of a Grim. (Thanks Lib!)

17. He has his fortune told by Professor Trelawney (can anyone guess what she predicted?) and it comes true.

18. He is hit by a rogue bludger. Repeatedly.

19. Scores of Harry Potter fans trample him in a rampage after reading Goblet of Fire.

20. The Man in Black puts iocaine in his red currant rum in a duel on wits, which of course Fudge fails. (A/N Lol. Blatantly stolen from The Princess Bride, one of my other favourite stories)

21. He tried to get into a secret vault at Gringotts… and was found years later in one of the goblins' ten-yearly checks.

22. Hagrid accidentally steps on him. ('I didn't see `im!')

23. Lupin forgets to take the Wolfsbane Potion again and has to hide in the Shrieking Shack, and Sirius leads him to the Whomping Willow (a la Snape).

24. Stampedes of Anti-Fudge fans jump into the books and tie him up to the Whomping Willow.

25. Moody (Crouch Jr.) used him in his demonstration of the Unforgivable curses (DIE Fudge DIE!)

26. He met the Wicked Witch in Hansel and Gretel (A/N Fudge/fudge/gingerbread house. Sorry, I couldn't help myself!)

27. He's made to compete in the Triwizard Tournament… and doesn't quite make it past the dragons. Barbeque Fudge, anyone?

28. He choked on a crumpet that Tom from The Leaky Cauldron served him. (PoA)

29. Someone planted a tattoo Dark Mark on his left forearm when he's asleep…

30. He is hexed by millions of disgruntled Harry Potter fans.

31. By being the complete git he is.

32. He is eaten by Aragog. Or one of his children.

33. Mr. Weasley's car runs him over. Again. And again. And again.

34. Dumbledore refuses to fix up anymore MoM problems.

35. He realised that Voldemort IS back and is admitted to St. Mungo's for shock and a botched up Memory Charm he tried to perform on himself.

36. He is pushed off the Astronomy Tower.

37. He is a politician. Need I say more?

38. He died from saliva poisoning from an over-excited Fang.

39. He got lost in Dumbledore's beard (or Hagrid's hair, if it comes to that).

40. He met Tyler Durden ('Fight Club')... Some imaginary friends can be deadly

41. A gaggle of Cornish Pixies are sicced upon him.

42. He gets a hold of the Harry Potter books, reads them, and upon venturing into Muggle London, is stoned by Harry Potter-loving Muggles.

43. 50 tons of Harry Potter books falls on him.

44.  He reads the Harry Potter books and goes into hiding for fear of being hurt by masses of Fudge-haters.

45. He is denied acceptance to the Competent Politicians Guild. (But then again, who would be?)

46. He is chased by anyone with even a little fashion sense. Who in the world goes around wearing a pinstriped suit, scarlet tie, long black cloak, pointed purple boots and a lime green bowler hat to top it off?

47. He faces Voldemort with one of Fred and George's wands.

48. He enters Snape's office and finds out the hard way that Snape is a vampire.

49. Who cares? Whatever it will be, we will all dance with joy over his grave.

50. J.K. decides to kill him off.

Tootles! 


	2. 31 By being the complete git he is

DISCLAIMER: I do not own Harry Potter, Cornelius Fudge or any other Harry Potter character I write about. I am not JK Rowling. 

A/N: Ok, there's a story behind this. And no, it's not long. I was at uni one day and pretty bored, as you are. I was reading GoF at the time (writing my Five Line Challenge of it) and I was at the part where Fudge speaks Voldemort's name and gives a weird smile in, I think, Chapter 36. It was also the time when I was convinced that Fudge was a secret Death Eater (not that that has changed). Anyways, I got to thinking… of ways he could meet an untimely demise. I wrote a list of 50 – which can be found at the Scribbles from Magic of History Class thread at FictionAlley. Then I realised I'd written a list of plot bunnies. And now, from my completely deranged state of mind come the vignettes of **Ways in Which Cornelius Fudge Meets an Untimely Demise**! 

Ways in Which Cornelius Fudge Meets an Untimely Demise

**#31 By being the complete git he is**

One bright, beautiful, sunny, gitless day, many, many years ago, Cornelius Fudge was born. This same day, coincidentally, the Git Meter soared to an all-time high. However his parents, the delightful Mr. and Mrs. Fudge, disregarded this, as they believed that no child sprung from their loins could possibly be a git. 

Those poor, poor, disillusioned parents.

Fortunately for Fudge, his gitish tendencies never appeared during childhood. In fact, he was quite popular. A recent _Magical Scientist_ issue printed an article by the renowned G.I. Tee, a leading expert on the 'Git Phenomenon', as it has been coined. After a 10-year research study, Tee found that the emergence of the 'git' was linked with the purchase of a specific item of clothing, in particular lime-green bowler hats. He also discovered that teaming this ludicrously coloured hat with a pinstripe suit, scarlet tie, long black cloak and purple pointed boots increased the level of git potential, and thus he acknowledging the existence of the 'quintessential git'.

Fudge didn't stand a chance.

Fudge's gitish nature surfaced in his early teens, while shopping with his girlfriend, Florence, in Diagon Alley. Walking past Madam Malkin's Robes for Every Occasion, he spotted something that only a person with a fully receptive git radar would pick up. There, almost hidden from view in a dark, dusty corner of the shop, Fudge spotted a hat. A bowler hat. Dyed lime-green. All this while on the opposite side of the street. It was love at first sight. He directed Florence into Madam Malkin's and bought it immediately. 

Florence was disgusted. 'God, you're a brainless git!' she hissed, and stormed out of the store. Before she disappeared in the milling crowds, she added, 'And I will never, EVER, go with you behind the greenhouses ever again!' For the next week, Florence waited for Fudge's owl, but it never came. She spent the following month in tears as she realised her soul mate was a git. She was so distraught that she left from the Wizard world, and currently lives in seclusion in the Muggle city of York, along with many ghostly companions.

Fudge, on the other hand, had embarked on a love affair with his new hat. It wasn't long before he had purchased the entire git ensemble. It was only a matter of time, really. His parents died of shock and dismay – a common complaint from the families of gits. They had had no idea their beloved, popular son was a closet git.

His journey to become head of the Ministry is an interesting tale, which sparked an inquest into blatant favouritism within the Ministry, as it has been revealed recently that the past three Ministers for Magic had themselves been closet gits. The Minister for Magic Fudge succeeded, Mr. Julius Lease, saw the git potential in Fudge when he first arrived at the Ministry, and so promoted him to the position of Junior Minister. The rest, as they say is history. Or, as they say in git circles, the rest is git history. 

This fine day, although very much git-filled as it was Cornelius Fudge's sixtieth birthday, seemed no different from any other gitingly spiffing day. Fudge had sent off a battalion of owls earlier that morning, reminding everyone that it was his birthday. It was now 5pm and not one person had replied. A knock on the door brought him to attention. It was Ludo Bagman.

'Good day there, Fudge, my friend,' Ludo burst out cheerfully. 'I was in the area, so I just thought I'd drop by.'

'That was very nice of you, Ludo, but as you can see, I'm quite busy.'

'Ah, the Git Convention. When does that begin again?'

'Next week. They've asked me to give a speech.'

'That's wonderful! Well, I'd better be off – going to Madam Malkin's to buy my first bowler hat!'

'That's 'git-tastic', as we say in git circles. Good luck, Ludo. Don't forget – it's lime-green, _not_ purple. Poor Dedalus Diggle had quite a hard time remembering that.'

'I won't. See you at SOCKS tomorrow!'

_Oh yeah_, Fudge remembered. Society of the Childlike Kindred Spirits _is tomorrow night. Humph,_ he added, _that git of a Magical Games and Sports Minister didn't even remember my birthday. Well, I guess the Git must definitely be with me! Ah, dinnertime!_ And off he headed to his favourite burger place in Muggle London, which, incidentally, was owned by a fellow git from SOCKS. Crossing the busy Muggle road outside _The Leaky Cauldron, Fudge forgot the most important road rule – look right, look left, look right again before you cross the road._

The truck driver from Grunnings' Drills slammed on the brakes but it was too late. 'What a complete git!' he exclaimed, and promptly drove off.

And so, before I leave you to return to your thankfully gitless lives, I hope you learned a very important lesson from reading this – always obey Muggle road rules.

A/N – don't need to capitalise the 'o' of the society. They call it 'SOCKS' cause it makes more sense than calling it 'SCKS'


	3. 50 JK decides to kill him off

DISCLAIMER: I do not own Harry Potter, Cornelius Fudge or any other Harry Potter character I write about. I am not JK Rowling. 

A/N: Ha! Another way of killing off everyone's most hated Minister for Magic. I am so evil! *grins evilly*

Ways in Which Cornelius Fudge Meets an Untimely Demise

**#50 J.K. decides to kill him off**

It was another boring, git-filled morning for Cornelius Fudge, Minister for Magic. He'd just finished sending off his twelfth owl to Dumbledore, even though it was only ten o'clock. He was planning to send out at least twenty-five more to deal with the little problems listed in his job description that he simply couldn't face. He sometimes wished he could be back in the position of Junior Minister. He smiled as he remembered the fun times he had had… although they usually involved pink tutus with orange sequins, an excessive amount of red currant rum, and sniggering from his fellow workmates, who usually held a bottle of clear liquid with 'Smirnoff' written on the label. He decided to forget all that, remembering the perks of being in power. He grimaced, and sent another owl to Dumbledore.

He sighed contentedly, picking up a scrap piece of paper from his desk. It carried the crest of the Bulgarian Minister for Magic on the top and looked very official. However, for some reason, Fudge, in his gitish ways, dismissed it, screwing the paper into a ball and throwing it in the direction of his wastepaper basket – or, as I should say, in the direction of the enormous pile of screwed up balls of paper, where the bin had originally stood. Let's just say that this was not the first note of that kind Fudge had received, this week alone, at any rate. He had received an anonymous Howler as well only a few days ago. Fudge ended up losing his hat from the sheer force of it, and had sent another owl to Dumbledore. He was very upset about the hat.

Sighing once more, Fudge Accio-ed his bowler hat from the hat-stand, and placed it reverently on his head. He found that it made all his worries disappear – and besides, lime-green suited his skin tone. Of course, what the git _didn't notice were the sniggers and snorts of suppressed laughter as he left Madam Malkin's each time he was in need of a new hat. This usually occurred once every two weeks; twice a fortnight, if he was lucky. It wasn't that he kept on losing them, he just really liked hats. Well, __hat, really. Those of the lime-green bowler variety. Madam Malkin's stocked them especially for him, and being familiar with his gitivity, added a 200% mark up on the price. Fudge was VERY fond of saying 'you can never have too many hats!', but, obviously no one had advised him that 'colour is everything'._

A knock on the door woke Fudge out of his gitiful daydream over the new lime-green bowler hat he'd spotted in a strategically placed display window at Madam Malkin's.

'Yes? Come in!' 

A tall redhead with glasses poked his head into the room. Fudge got the immediate impression that this young boy was a bit of a git. 

'Minister Fudge?' _And a sycophant at that too_, Fudge thought wryly. _Ah, well, there's nothing wrong with a bit of sycophantism from the young people of today!_

'Yes, er…'

'Weasley, sir. Percy Weasley.'

'Ah! Arthur's son, I presume. What can I do for you?'

Percy pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. 'Well, sir, there are a lot of people here to see you. Shall I let them in?'

'Yes, go ahead.' Fudge sat at his desk and adjusted the angle of his hat. He grinned at himself in the desktop mirror he kept as the hat now sat in a very fashionable jaunty manner. A loud cough brought him back to attention. He started slightly, or so, he imagined himself to. In reality, he jumped about five feet into the air, thus losing the jaunty angle. 

The office was filled with a huge crowd of people - there was no space unaccounted for. If Fudge had known about this abundance of space in his office, he would have let out the meeting room for a day-care centre. He could see a very sallow faced man with greasy hair, and two identical red head boys amongst the crowd. The twin boys wore identical mischievous grins on their faces. Even their clothes were identical. For a second, Fudge thought he was seeing double and almost cancelled the red currant rum he'd ordered as a part of his lunch. Oh, and standing there right in front of him was little Harry Potter! How fortunate! Well, Harry wasn't so little anymore, but Fudge's intellectual part of the brain, which wasn't very large by the way, knew the difference. He didn't recognise the tall, lanky red headed boy, or the girl with the bushy hair who stood there beside him, but they all were wearing the same looks of annoyance on their faces that the multitude in the office shared. Fudge made a mental note to give this girl the name of his favourite hat designer.

'What can I do for you all?' Fudge asked cheerfully.

The Potter boy opened his mouth to answer, but all of a sudden… J.K Rowling Apparated into the room in a flash of bright, electric blue lightning. She carried a wand of walnut wood in her right hand, and in her left, she held the very first copy of _Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix. _

'Avada Kedavra!' she yelled, pointing her wand at Fudge, a gust of wind knocking the hat off his head. When the green light faded, J.K. was met with disbelieving, shocked and admiring stares from all around her. Fudge lay face down on top of his fallen hat. He would have been proud to know he died on his most treasured possession.

J.K. shrugged unashamedly. 'Well, he was a git. And besides, I needed to kill someone off in the next book. Goodbye, my children!' And with that, she Disapparated back to the world of reality and the next press conference.

The crowd in Fudge's office burst into loud applause.


	4. 18 He is hit by a rogue bludger Repeated...

DISCLAIMER: I do not own Harry Potter, Cornelius Fudge or any other Harry Potter character I write about. I am not JK Rowling. 

A/N: Ha! Another way of killing off everyone's most hated Minister for Magic. I am so evil! *grins evilly*

Ways in Which Cornelius Fudge Meets an Untimely Demise

**#18.** He is hit by a rogue bludger. Repeatedly.****

Oliver Wood, God of the Quidditch Pitch and Overall Nice Guy, ran into the Quidditch Team change rooms in tears. 'Harry Potter's been injured!' he cried, frantically tearing at his hair, 'And we have no reserve Seeker! What are we going to do? We're doomed! Doomed I tell you!' He ran around the change room yelling incoherently, stopping every now and then to flex his toned arm muscles.

'Chill, Ollie,' Angelina piped up. 'It's not the end of the world. I'm sure we can find someone out there who'll help us out.' With that, she stood up and went on her little mission.

'Not the end of the world? _Not the end of the world!?_ Is she crazy? My life is over!' Oliver moaned, falling head first into a pile of dirty Ravenclaw robes left after the Quidditch match last weekend with Hufflepuff.

A short while later, Angelina strode back into the change room with a huge smile on her face; the others looked at her expectantly.

'I've found someone who's willing to play for us, although, he is_ quite old…' She motioned to a figure standing in the doorway to enter. Oliver took one glance and fell into a catatonic coma._

'Angie, you can't be serious!' laughed Fred. 'What would _he know about Quidditch?'_

'Yeah, he's a git! Or did that fact escape your attention?' George added.

'Actually, I used to be Seeker back in my school days,' spoke up the voice of His Royal Gitness, Cornelius Fudge. He nervously fingered the sleeve hem of his purple robes. 'I played every year from second onwards.'

'That's because,' Oliver interrupted, waking up miraculously, 'no one else wanted the position.'

'That's not true!' Fudge rebutted petulantly. 'I was quite good!'

'Yeah, right.  This _git,' he pointed accusingly at Fudge, 'was the Hufflepuff Seeker of 1936 to 1942, who never even managed to catch the Snitch,' scoffed Oliver. The rest of the team looked at Oliver in wonder. The Quidditch God had struck again. _

Fudge grumbled incoherently about captains and large broomsticks poking into certain orifices. Angelina whacked him over the head with her own broomstick. 

'Ow! Watch the hat, for pity's sake!' Fudge cried, rubbing the back of his head. 'What was that for?'

'Revenge on behalf all the Oliver fan girls for even THINKING about that!' Angelina looked at him fiercely. 'A git such as yourself should NEVER _EVER insult Oliver Wood. Now bow down and _beg_ for his forgiveness!'_

Fudge looked at her in horrified disbelief. 'You CAN'T be serious!' he exclaimed. Fred and George Weasley walked over to him and shoved him to his knees.

'Totally serious, gitface' said George. He shrugged. 'We've all had to do it at one time or another.'

The team unsuccessfully stifled their laughter as Fudge kowtowed to Oliver, who looked quite pleased with himself. And rightly so.

'Ok, that's enough!' Oliver proclaimed, after Fudge began to grow red in the face from exertion. 'Come on, Seeker, it's game time!' He motioned to Fudge's clothing ensemble. 'You'd better get into some robes. I think we have a pair that will fit you – they're Hagrid's old ones from his own Quidditch days.' Oliver gazed dreamily in front of him. 'The best Beater in Gryffindor Quidditch team history…' he trailed off, seeing the identical angst-filled expressions on Fred and George's faces. '… until Fred and George of course! They knock him right off the chart!' 

*****************

'Welcome to today's Quidditch match!' reverberated the voice of Lee Jordan from the announcer's stand. 'Gryffindor versus Slytherin!' The crowd burst into a chorus of 'yay's and 'boo's according to whoever they were cheering for. Of course, the majority of the stadium backed Gryffindor, for obvious reasons.

'And now from the left of the pitch… the Slytherin team! Led by…' Lee was cut off by a loud resounding roar of disapproval. In usual circumstances, he wouldn't have minded, but today he was accompanied by McGonagall, who had a bad cold. He knew from past experience that crossing an ill McGonagall was like insulting a hippogriff. And we all know what happens then. He grimaced. '… led by Captain Marcus Flint. Here's Flint, Pucey, Montague, Warrington, Derrick, Bole aaaaaaand Malfoy!' The snarling of the crowd grew, overpowering the cheers of the tiny minority of Slytherin supporters. 

'And now, from the right of the pitch, I am pleased to welcome… the Gryffindor team!' A loud cheering echoed around the pitch as red and gold flags and scarves waved madly, from a distance looking almost like a dish of banana custard served with raspberry coulis. With one of those nasty sprigs of mint on the side. Honestly, who eats the mint?

'Led by Captain Oliver Wood…' Lee continued before being drowned out once more by the hysterical screams of Oliver fan girls. _Honestly_, he thought, _it's not like he's a _god_ or anything! Almost immediately, the heavens clouded over and a flash of lightning struck, missing him by a millimetre. McGonagall turned to him._

'JORDAN! WHAT DID I SAY ABOUT MOCKING THE FAN GIRLS?' she yelled, despite her croaky voice. She popped a Blackberry Soothers™ into her mouth, because as you know, Soothers™ soothes a dry, sore throat.

'I'm sorry Professor,' Lee said meekly.

'Don't apologise to me – apologise to the author, and remind her that this is supposed to be a short fic!' Lee nervously looked up to the heavens.

'Did you hear that?' he asked, timidly.

'Yes,' replied the sweet voice of the Author. 'I'm getting to the point, I just couldn't help but play on the Oliver fan girl thing for a while!' She sighed dreamily.

'GET ON WITH IT!' yelled another impatient voice from the heavens.

'Geez, Lib!' the Author cried, exasperated. 'Leave me alone! This is hard enough without having my beta-reader on my tail!' There was a pause. 'Well, get on with it Lee!'

'Ok, ok!' Lee said. He muttered something about temperamental authors. Another bolt of lightning flashed dangerously and two voices from above chorused 'Get on with it!' 

'Sorry!' he called out. 'Ok, on with the game. Sorry about that folks,' he spoke into the microphone. 'Slight disagreement with the author. Anyway, here comes the Gryffindor team! Wood, Johnson, Weasley, Weasley, Bell, Spinnet aaaaaaaaaaand Potter!'

The Harry fan girls went wild, until they noticed something odd about everyone's beloved raven-haired, green-eyed Boy-Who-Everyone-Adores-Apart-From-Those-Who-Adore-Oliver-And-Lucius-And-Snape-And-Draco-And-Ron-And-Anyone-Else-The-Author-Has-Left-Out-Due-To-The-Suffering-Plot-Line. He was wearing a lime-green bowler hat!

'Fudge!' Wood bellowed, 'get that blasted hat off your damn head!' Fudge yelled back something that was obscured by the now muttering-in-disbelief spectators and the wailing sobs of Harry fan girls. Oliver glared at him in disgust. 'I don't CARE if your mother gave it to you on her death bed. GET IT OFF, YOU GIT!' A vein in Oliver's forehead throbbed dangerously. Reluctantly, Fudge pulled the hat off, giving it a loving kiss good bye before tossing it to the side.

'Well, there's something unexpected,' Lee remarked easily. 'Looks like our Golden Boy has had another run-in with the forces of evil and is unable to play today.' The crowd groaned in disappointment, while the fan girls sobbed louder. 'But, as luck has it, our very own Minister for Magic has decided to fill in for him! Please welcome Cornelius Fudge!' Putting his hand over the microphone, he glanced up to the heavens and asked disbelievingly, 'Are you for real?'

'Yes,' replied the oh-so-witty Author. 'I can't stand Fudge. He will die!' She laughed evilly. 'Hey, Lee, the game's starting without you!'

'Oh, yeah, right. And they're off! Gryffindor Chaser Katie Bell takes possession of the Quaffle. Look at her go! She's zooming towards the goal like a moth to the flame! She shoots, SHE SCORES!!! That's ten points to Gryffindor! Chaser Johnson takes the Quaffle, but is intercepted by the Slytherin scum…'

'JORDAN!'

'Er… by Slytherin Chaser Flint, who has been shot down by the Gryffindor Seeker with no control over his broom. And there he goes again – what _is Fudge doing?'_

Pandemonium broke out amongst the fans, who had also noticed Fudge's unsteady flying. 

'My… it looks like… yes it is! That bludger is after him! Look at it go!' Lee sat up in his seat excitedly.

The bludger chased after Fudge, stalking him like a love-sick puppy. He cried out in pain as the magically-enhanced iron cannon ball flew into his left arm, splintering the bones, before abruptly turning around and zooming after him again, set on the most painful kind of destruction.

Lee stood up; he couldn't believe what he was seeing. 'That bludger's beating the stuffing out of Fudge! I can't believe this! People, we have a mad bludger on our hands!'

The crowd didn't seem to mind this unexpected plot development; indeed, they began to chant 'Get the Git! Get the Git! Get the Git!' with much enthusiasm.

Fudge's face was a mask of absolute terror. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't shake that blasted bludger off his tail. 'Oh no!' he moaned, as he passed a stand of now-cheering spectators, his broken arm dangling uselessly. 'That camera-mad boy has my hat!' He zoomed towards Colin Creevey, who had decided that the hat suited him very well, and snatched it off his head. 

A very unfortunate move.

A cry of pain erupted as the bludger succeeded in knocking Fudge from his broom. As he fell in slow motion (from the view of Hermione's Omniocular, at any rate), the bludger continued to whack him again… and again… and again until Fudge resembled a horrible mishmash of blue and black. He landed, with a loud groan, on the sand floor of the pitch… and was promptly knocked out by the bludger with a well-placed hit to the head. The crowd screamed in delight. 

*****************

Far from the raucous noise of the Quidditch Pitch, a small figure ran hurriedly into the Hospital Ward where Harry Potter lay.

'Dobby has done it, sir! Dobby has done what Harry Potter has asked!' Dobby jumped up and down excitedly on Harry's mending leg.

'Ow! Get off, Dobby!' Harry grabbed his leg, grimacing. Dobby immediately jumped off the bed. Frowning in pain, he turned to Dobby and tried to smile. 'Good work, Dobby,' he said, before mumbling to no one in particular, 'Ha! Mentally disturbed am I, Mr. Cornelius _Git Fudge? Well, we'll see who's mentally disturbed!'_

'Is there anything else Harry Potter would like Dobby to do?' The green-eyed Oompa-Loompa wannabe looked at Harry with a mad, eager look in his eyes. Harry patted Dobby on the head.

'No, that'll do, Dobby,' he said, stroking the orange ball that stood in for the CGI animation, 'That'll do.'


	5. 10 He is put on the stake for being a gi...

Ways in Which Cornelius Fudge Meets an Untimely Demise
    
    **#10 He is put on the stake for being a git **
    
    **(an amended version of the original which was to be for witchcraft)**
    
    INT – HOGWARTS – DAY

[Footsteps in the Entrance Hall grow steadily louder. The distinct sound of a person singing off-key floats through the air]

FUDGE: [singing to the tune of 'The Lumberjack Song'] I'm the Minister and I'm Ok, I've a bowler hat and a Chevrolet! [FUDGE pauses] Hmm… now… which way to Dumbledore's office! Ah, yes, this way! [FUDGE walks up the stairs] My, what's this? [FUDGE bends down to pick up a miniature hour glass, suspended on a gold chain] 

[Close up to the hour glass. It reads "Temporal Twisters"] 

FUDGE: Oh, how pretty! Dolores would love this! [FUDGE places it around his neck and notices a small button on the side, and presses it out of curiosity] Aack!

[FUDGE disappears]

[Stifled laughter is heard from behind a nearby suit of armour]

[The suit of armour falls over, revealing FRED and GEORGE WEASLEY, who are visiting Hogwarts in order to test their newly manufactured product. Both are shaking in fits of laughter]

FRED: I can't believe the git fell for it!

GEORGE: What do you expect? He _is a git! _

FRED: Too true. Serves him right for what he did in _Order of the Phoenix!_

GEORGE: You can say that again!

FRED: Too true. Serves him right for what he did in Order of the Phoenix!

[GEORGE groans and pokes his twin]

GEORGE: So, what time did you set our new and improved Time Turner to?

FRED: A time where I think dear ol' Mr Fudge will have VERY good time…

[FRED and GEORGE cackle mischievously]

[FADE OUT]
    
    EXT – FOREST IN MIDDLE AGES – DAY

[There is a loud thump as FUDGE falls flat on his face]

FUDGE: Wha- Where am I?

[FUDGE peers around nervously, and picks up his bowler hat which has fallen off his head]

[A rustling sound is heard from the nearby trees]

FUDGE: Wh – Who's there?

[An extraordinary tall KNIGHT dressed in black comes out of the trees, followed by a small crowd of similarly dressed KNIGHTS] 

KNIGHT: We are the Knights who say… 'NI'!

FUDGE: Excuse me?

[The tall KNIGHTS look at each other. One of them pulls out a script. They mutter incoherently]

[The head KNIGHT turns around to face FUDGE]

KNIGHT OF NI: Ahem. Sorry, wrong scene.

[KNIGHTS OF NI disappear into thin air]

[FUDGE stares around in confusion]

[An evil cackle echoes from the heavens]

[A man who looks strikingly like an older version of HARRY POTTER, except a lightning bolt scar and dressed red and yellow peasant clothes, appears out of nowhere]

FUDGE: Oh, Harry! Finally, a familiar face!

MAN: I'm not Harry. Who is this Harry?

FUDGE: Just a boy I … Are you sure you're not Harry Potter?

MAN: No, I am William Potter. [Stares at FUDGE suspiciously]

[FUDGE finally notices that WILLIAM POTTER is wearing an unusual ensemble of clothing]

WILLIAM POTTER: Who are you?

FUDGE: I-I… I'm from the future, I think. 

[WILLIAM POTTER frowns, then grins as a realisation dawns on him. He pulls out a piece of parchment from his pocket and reads it]

WILLIAM POTTER: You wouldn't be Cornelius Fudge by any chance, would you?

[FUDGE looks slightly flustered]

FUDGE: Why yes, I am. How did you know?

[WILLIAM POTTER'S grin widens]

WILLIAM POTTER: We've been expecting you.

[WILLIAM POTTER pulls his wand from his pocket and shoots red sparks in the air]

FUDGE: Oh really? Well, I'm quite flattered that you're expecting me… but who told you I was going to be here exactly?

[FUDGE pauses as a group of ten people materialize out of nowhere]

WILLIAM POTTER: Oh, just the Author. Now, Minister Fudge, please come with us.

[Before Fudge can reply, he is grabbed by a red haired man who looks uncannily like RON WEASLEY and a plump man who resembles NEVILLE LONGBOTTOM. They take his wand, the time turner and his hat from him]

FUDGE: My hat! No! Not my precious! Precioussssssssssssssssssss!

[FADE OUT]
    
    EXT – VILLAGE – DAY 

KNIGHTS OF WALPURGIS:  [chanting] Pie Iesu domine, dona eis requiem.

   [bonk]

   Pie Iesu domine...

   [bonk]                                                

   ...dona eis requiem.

   [bonk]

   Pie Iesu domine...

   [bonk]

   ...dona eis requiem.

(A/N: In the Jeremy Paxton interview of 19th June 2003, JK revealed that the Death Eaters were once called the 'Knights of Walpurgis'. I just like to imagine them whacking themselves with wooden planks.)

CROWD led by WILLIAM POTTER: A git! A git! A git! A git!

KNIGHTS OF WALPURGIS: [chanting] Pie Iesu domine...

CROWD: A git!  A git!  A git!  A git!  We've found a git!  A git!  A git!  A git!  A git!  We've got a git!  A git!  A git!  Burn him!  Burn him!  Burn him!  We've found a git!  We've found a git!  A git!  A git!  A git!

[CROWD deposits FUDGE onto a platform where ABRAHAM DUMBLEDORE, a man who could possibly be ALBUS DUMBLEDORE'S twin, is standing]

WILLIAM POTTER: We have found a git! May we burn him?

CROWD: Burn him! Burn him! Burn him! Burn him!

ABRAHAM DUMBLEDORE: How do you know he is a git?

RICHARD WEASLEY: He looks like one!

CROWD: Right! Yeah! Yeah!

ABRAHAM DUMBLEDORE: Bring him forward.

FUDGE:  I'm not a git.  I'm not a git.

ABRAHAM DUMBLEDORE:  Ah, but you are dressed as one.

[FUDGE looks down at his clothes]

FUDGE: But, I always dress like this! 

CROWD:  He does! He does!

FUDGE:  I WANT MY HAT BACK!

ABRAHAM DUMBLEDORE:  Well?

WILLIAM POTTER:  I found him wandering in the forest, like we were told he would be.

ABRAHAM DUMBLEDORE:  The forest? Like the Author told us in the note?

WILLIAM POTTER:  Yes. He was wearing the lime green bowler hat, too. He's a git!

RICHARD WEASLEY:  Yeah!

CROWD: Let's burn him!  Right!  Yeaaah!  Yeaah!

[ABRAHAM DUMBLEDORE sees FUDGE crying piteously over his hat]

ABRAHAM DUMBLEDORE:  Did you take his bowler hat?

WILLIAM POTTER:  No!

RICHARD WEASLEY and OSWALD LONGBOTTOM:  No.  No.

RICHARD WEASLEY:  No.

WILLIAM POTTER:  No.

RICHARD WEASLEY and OSWALD LONGBOTTOM:  No.

WILLIAM POTTER:  Yes.

RICHARD WEASLEY:  Yes.

WILLIAM POTTER:  Yes.  Yeah, we did.

OSWALD LONGBOTTOM:  We did.

WILLIAM POTTER and RICHARD WEASLEY:  We did.

OSWALD LONGBOTTOM:  We did

.

WILLIAM POTTER:  We did take his bowler hat.

[WILLIAM POTTER produces a lime-green bowler hat from behind his back and hands it back to FUDGE. FUDGE cradles it lovingly]

RANDOM:  [cough]

ABRAHAM DUMBLEDORE:  What makes you think he is a git?

OSWALD LONGBOTTOM:  Well, he turned me into a twat.

ABRAHAM DUMBLEDORE:  He turned you into a twat?

[OSWALD LONGBOTTOM glances around shiftily]

OSWALD LONGBOTTOM:  I got better.

RICHARD WEASLEY:  Burn him anyway!

WILLIAM POTTER:  Burn!

CROWD:  Burn her!  Burn!  Burn him!

ABRAHAM DUMBLEDORE:  Quiet!  Quiet!  Quiet!  Quiet!  There are ways of telling whether he is a git.

WILLIAM POTTER:  Are there?

RICHARD WEASLEY:  Ah?

WILLIAM POTTER:  What are they?

CROWD:  Tell us!  Tell us!

RICHARD WEASLEY:  Do they hurt?

ABRAHAM DUMBLEDORE:  Tell me.  What do you do with gits?

RICHARD WEASLEY:  Burn!

WILLIAM POTTER:  Burn!

CROWD:  Burn!  Burn them up!  Burn!

ABRAHAM DUMBLEDORE:  And what do you burn apart from gits?

WILLIAM POTTER:  More gits!

OSWALD LONGBOTTOM:  Shh!

RICHARD WEASLEY:  Wood!

[An angry cry rises from a VILLAGER who could pass as an OLIVER WOOD. He is carrying a broomstick and polishing it lovingly, and is surrounded by many adoring village girls]

SAMUEL WOOD: Hey!

RICHARD WEASLEY: Oops, I mean… parchment!

ABRAHAM DUMBLEDORE:  So, why do gits burn?

   [pause]

OSWALD LONGBOTTOM:  B--... 'cause they're made of... parchment?

ABRAHAM DUMBLEDORE:  Good!  Heh heh.

CROWD:  Oh, yeah.  Oh.

ABRAHAM DUMBLEDORE:  So, how do we tell whether he is made of parchment?

WILLIAM POTTER:  Build a paper house out of him.

ABRAHAM DUMBLEDORE:  Ah, but can you not also make paper houses out of Exploding Snap cards?

WILLIAM POTTER:  Oh, yeah.

RANDOM:  Oh, yeah. True. Uhh...

ABRAHAM DUMBLEDORE:  Does paper sink in water?

WILLIAM POTTER:  No.  No.

RICHARD WEASLEY:  No, it floats!  It floats!

WILLIAM POTTER:  Throw him into the lake!

CROWD:  The lake!  Throw him into the lake!

FUDGE: But I can't swim! And this suit is dry-clean only!

ABRAHAM DUMBLEDORE:  Quiet you. What also floats in water?

WILLIAM POTTER:  The giant squid!

RICHARD WEASLEY: Rats!

OSWALD LONGBOTTOM:  Uh, lots of toads!

WILLIAM POTTER:  Pumpkin juice!

RICHARD WEASLEY:  Uh, ma – maroon jumpers!

WILLIAM POTTER:  Owls!

RICHARD WEASLEY:  Dirt!

OSWALD LONGBOTTOM:  Uh, Hogwarts!  Hogwarts!

RICHARD WEASLEY:  Wands!  Wands!

[Out of the shadows, a tall, stately old woman wearing a tartan cloak, with her hair styled in a meticulous bun, steps forward]

ATHENA MCGONAGALL:  A swallow!

CROWD:  Oooh.

[ABRAHAM DUMBLEDORE nods approvingly]

ABRAHAM DUMBLEDORE:  Exactly.  So, logically...

WILLIAM POTTER:  If... he... weighs... the same as a swallow... he's made of paper.

ABRAHAM DUMBLEDORE:  And therefore?

RICHARD WEASLEY:  A git!

WILLIAM POTTER:  A git!

CROWD:  A git!  A git!

MICHAEL BROCKLEHURST:  Here is a swallow.  Use this swallow.

WILLIAM POTTER: Is it African or European?

MICHAEL BROCKLEHURST: European. African swallows are non-migratory.

ABRAHAM DUMBLEDORE:  Very good.  We shall use my largest scales.

CROWD:  Ohh!  Ohh!  Burn the git!  Burn the git!  Burn him!  Burn him!  Burn him!  Burn him!  Burn him!  Burn him!  Burn him!  Ahh!  Ahh...

ABRAHAM DUMBLEDORE:  Right.  Remove the supports!

   [whop]

   [clunk]

   [creak]

CROWD:  A git!  A git!  A git!

FUDGE:  W – Wait a minute! Those scales were uneven! That's not fair...

OSWALD LONGBOTTOM:  Burn him!

CROWD:  Burn him!  Burn him!  Burn him!  Burn!  Burn! ...

FUDGE: NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO! What did I do to deserve this?

[The CROWD disperses. The only ones left are ABRAHAM DUMBLEDORE and ATHENA MCGONAGALL]

ATHENA MCGONAGALL: Ah! I need to get out of this disguise!

[ATHENA MCGONAGALL swishes her wand over herself and is revealed to be FRED WEASLEY]

FRED WEASLEY: Come on, George!

[ABRAHAM DUMBLEDORE imitates the previous wand movement, to be none other than GEORGE WEASLEY]

[FADE OUT]

EXT – VILLAGE COMMON – DAY

[FRED and GEORGE WEASLEY join the CROWD, who have tied FUDGE to a stake]

[A guitar suddenly appears in FRED WEASLEY'S arms]

FRED WEASLEY: Cheer up Fudge. You know what they say.

[FRED strokes a chord on the guitar]

FRED WEASLEY: Cheer up Fudge. You know what they say.

GEORGE WEASLEY: Some things in life are bad. 

FRED WEASLEY: They can really make you mad. 

GEORGE WEASLEY: Other things just make you swear and curse.

FRED WEASLEY: When you're chewing on life's gristle, 

GEORGE WEASLEY: Don't grumble. Give a whistle. 

FRED WEASLEY: And this'll help things turn out for the best. And…

[WILLIAM POTTER lifts a flaming torch to the dried wood surrounding FUDGE'S stake]

FRED and GEORGE WEASLEY: [sings] Always look on the bright side of life. [whistling]

CROWD: Always look on the bright side of life. [whistling]

FUDGE: [oblivious to the singing] This can't be happening! I'm Minister for Magic!

MARY BONES: You're not Minister for Magic; you're a very naughty boy!

[FUDGE screams as the flames start to creep up to him]

CROWD: Always look on the bright side of life. [whistling]

[CROWD continues to sing, drowning out FUDGE'S screams. They light their wands and sway from side to side]

[FADE OUT]

EXT – FOREST – AFTERNOON

FRED WEASLEY: Well, that's what I call a job well done!

AUTHOR: [grins omnisciently] Yes, very good job, boys.

[FRED WEASLEY pulls out a "Temporal Twister", slips the chain around his and GEORGE'S necks and presses a button]

[FRED and GEORGE WEASLEY disappear]

[There is a rustling in the nearby shrubbery]

KNIGHT OF NI: Hey, wait! What about our scene? You promised! You…

[FADE OUT]


	6. 33 Mr Weasley’s car runs him over Again ...

Ways in Which Cornelius Fudge Meets an Untimely Demise

**#33 Mr Weasley's car runs him over. Again. And Again. And Again.**

Cornelius Fudge, Minister for Magic, was _not_ having a good day. In terms of 'worst days of his life', this day ranked well within the top five, and that included the time Dolores refused to return his owls as well as when he was forced to wear an orange tutu with pink sequins, so it had some pretty stiff competition. In his opinion, the tutu would have suited him much better if it had been lime-green and perhaps studded with fluorescent yellow sequins – then it would have matched his bowler hat. 

[I feel I must note here that Cornelius Fudge's level of fashion sense has never been proven, and to this day he refuses to listen to anything to the contrary.] 

Nevertheless, this particular day was growing steadily worse. To start off with, Fudge was in the Forbidden Forest. Secondly, he was running. More to the point, he was in the Forbidden Forest and running for his life.

Tripping slightly, he automatically grabbed for his bowler hat, which threatened to fly off his head from the force. He'd already been running for close to twenty minutes and was panting terribly, his face tomato red from the exertion.

_Maybe if I close my eyes, this'll all go away_, he thought desperately. Of course, the git had forgotten he was running over tree roots, as well as an assortment of other earthy obstacles that would cause a delay in his sprint to freedom, and thus actually tripped over a very pronounced tree root. Consequently, he was attacked by the Bowtruckles inhabiting the tree. Frantically fighting off the Bowtruckles, who were clawing at him like there was no tomorrow, gnashing their pointy little teeth menacingly, Fudge peered over his shoulder to see if closing his eyes had achieved the desired effect. No such luck. He immediately jumped up and began to run again, two stray Bowtruckles still clinging onto his robes.

But let's backtrack a bit. 

Fudge's day had originally proceeded as normal. Or as normal as it could be, not forgetting who we are considering here! However, on this stormy morning at the Ministry (Magical Maintenance were threatening to strike if they weren't given another pay rise), Fudge received a _very_ odd owl from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry: 

_Minister Fudge,_

_We are but a thousand eager young minds at this esteemed school, and we feel we must bring to your attention that _(there was something heavily scribbled out here, but from what Fudge could make out, it read _you are a complete git. However, he was sure that it was just his mind playing tricks on him and read on) __under your care, this school has become better than it could possibly ever be, and we, the students of Hogwarts, would like to honour you personally at a small ceremony this afternoon. That is, of course, if you can fit it into your busy schedule of making the Wizarding World a better place. We are holding the ceremony at _3pm___ in the heart of the __Forbidden__Forest__._

_Yours,_

_The Students of Hogwarts_

And in smaller print:

_Written by H. Granger, on behalf of the Anti-Fudge movement of Dumbledore's Army._

But of course, no one reads the fine print and our Fudge was no exception.

Well, this letter certainly made Fudge feel very proud indeed! He proceeded to strut impressively around the Ministry like a peacock in mating season. What he didn't realise was that the letter was bewitched so the reader was in fact transfigured into a peacock – in this case, a very large peacock with horrible lime-green feathers haloing its head. This was Fred and George's new product – Peacock Parchment, selling for 5 Galleons for 10 sheets. Fortunately, Fudge never noticed the snickers from all around, having an in-built embarrassment defector, an ancient legacy within the Fudge family. The spell soon wore off, anyhow. It never crossed his mind during the course of the day how odd it was to hold a ceremony in the heart of the Forbidden Forest. Evidently, the fact it was _forbidden had skipped his attention and gone on an exciting holiday in the Caribbean._

At last, the portable office clock on his desk gently nudged him, intoning in a low female voice, 'It's five to three, Mr Minister.' Glancing at the clock, he once again asked himself why he'd chosen a picture of his wife to decorate the clock face; it had seemed such a novel idea at the time, but now it felt as though her eyes were on him at all times. It made him uncomfortable, especially whenever he became intimate with his hat.

[Author's note: Get out of the gutter, you people with dirty minds. His wife didn't approve of his hat purchasing as a rule and because almost ferocious when he bought hat grooming products. How are you supposed to become _intimate with a __hat for goodness sake??? No, if you have an answer, I do not want to know.]_

He hurriedly scribbled his signature on several documents that looked suspiciously like ballot forms for the upcoming Ministerial elections and leapt to his feet, Apparating before you could say, 'Dangerous Dai'.

A moment later, he arrived at the outskirts of the Forbidden Forest, where he was found and greeted by scores of cheering, black robed students. No teachers in sight, however. How odd, he thought. Oh well, I suppose this is just a student function after all! The moment they spotted him, the students all gathered around, until they were pushed out of the way by a very anxious-looking Ginny Weasley.

'Coming through, coming through! There's a schedule to keep. Hey, move over, Dean, I have to get through!' 

After much pushing and shoving, she finally made her way to Fudge, who was all but overwhelmed by the welcome he was receiving. Never before in his life, well, apart from winning _Witch Weekly_'s _Best Decorated Hat Competition, had he ever been greeted with such enthusiasm. This is how the famous must feel, Fudge thought dreamily._

'Good afternoon, Minister Fudge,' Ginny said cheerily.

'Oh, hello there. You're Arthur Weasley's girl, aren't you?'

'Yes, Minister. Now, if you could please come this way, I'll be taking you to the ceremony.' She took hold of the sleeve of his pinstripe robes and began to tug them, encouraging him to follow her.

'But what about all the students …?' he asked feebly, all of a sudden unsure of himself.

'Oh, don't worry, Minister, they'll be following us in,' she reassured. She smiled sweetly at him, melting his resolve in a similar way to the Wicked Witch of the West in a pool, without the shrieks of 'I'm melting … melting', of course, and he followed her into the depths of the dark, gloomy Forest.  

Lighting the tip her wand with a quick spell as the woods grew darker around them, Ginny motioned for the Minister to walk faster.

'We'll be there shortly, Minister. Not too far now.'

But that was thirty minutes ago, and Fudge was slowly growing weary, his former excitement now dying. A small creeping feeling within him doubted that the ceremony would even exist, but he pushed the thought away derisively. Why else would they have written to him if they didn't adore him? Everyone loved him; he was Minister for Magic! He heard an odd sound, like a twig snapping, to his right, and jumped in fright, waking from his thoughts.

'Crack!'

'Wh – Who's there?' he whispered, looking around him wildly. 'Ouch!' he cried as he snagged his sleeve on a particularly sharp branch overhead. 'Damn!' he hissed. 'That was an original Colin Rose! There goes 500 Galleons down the drain.' Fussing over the torn sleeve, he inspected the stinging wound on his forearm. The cut was deep, and he tried to stem the blood flow, listening intently for any sound. Silence. He turned to continue following Arthur's girl, but for some strange reason she was nowhere to be found. 

[The Author would like to say that no harm came to Ginny Weasley in the writing of this story. She had inadvertently fallen into a large plot hole, and found herself surrounded by four small men, two big men, an elf, a dwarf, a wizard and a large cave troll with bad body odour. Needless to say, a lot of fun was coming her way.] 

The fear he had been trying to tame ever since he stepped foot into the forest now jumped forward at the sound of the starter gun and was at running full speed down the track. Panicking outwardly now, his knees began to shake and his teeth began to chatter. He didn't like the look of this.

'Crack!'

His ears pricked as a second broken twig-like noise came from his left. Hesitantly, he turned to face whatever monster the Forest held, his wand outstretched in front of him, although his hand was shaking madly. He was on the verge of loosing all bladder control. There was a whooshing noise and a high pitched yell, and all of a sudden he was surrounded. His hair stood on end as he took in the scores of giant spiders, a group of about fifteen centaurs, led by a bearded black-haired one he heard another one refer to as 'Bane', a giant, who Fudge reckoned to be pushing sixteen feet, as well as a herd of horrifying-looking winged horses that seemed to be fleshless, yet covered with a black hide, stood before him. His bladder gave way.

[I might pause in the narration of this story for a moment to point out that those fleshless horses were indeed Thestrals. In what is an interesting tale, Fudge witnessed the death of a second cousin, who, in an extremely foolish action, had grabbed hold of a Holy Hand Grenade of Antioch (there were two in existence) and, as being a git runs in the family, foolishly counted to five before letting go of the grenade. Well, 'letting go' of it is a bit of a lie as he never actually managed to fling it; it simply exploded in his face. But as I have said, that is another story.]

Now, what was I saying? Oh yes, Fudge saw the Thestrals, although he didn't know what they were, never having come across them before in his life. He looked around bewildered, from the gnashing of Acromantulan pincers, to the steely-eyed glares and the sharp arrows of the centaurs, and finally to the nightmarish Thestrals, who were sniffing the air, obviously attracted to the blood flowing down Fudge's arm. Oh, and I almost forgot, a small white rabbit who happened to be visiting distant cousins that day decided to hop along for the ride. It was quite excited, and couldn't wait for the fun to begin. It had heard a lot about the overly large human whom other humans referred to as the 'git'.

Fudge ran.

And now, twenty minutes later, these creatures were still chasing him, giving no signs of letting up. Fudge was now covered in a variety of scratches, some of them quite deep, and a fair amount of bruising. An arrow aimed by an angry centaur stuck out of his left arm, bleeding profusely. He had lost his wand back ten or so minutes ago, foolishly dropping it as he avoided tripping over another tree root. The resounding 'snap' afterwards told him he needed to go back to Ollivanders as soon as possible. But worst of all, his bowler hat was utterly ruined. 

Up ahead he could make out a clearing, where some sort of commotion was occurring. _Oh thank Merlin! he exclaimed to himself._ I'm going to be saved!_ However, this was not to be. On closer inspection, he realised why excited-but-bordering-on-psychotic yells were echoing around the area. _

'No! Not Dolores! No!' Fudge screamed, running past another congregation of centaurs who had set up camp in the clearing. The centaurs, in retaliation of Umbridge's very tactless comments about their very prestigious race, had rigged up a spit over an open fire, upon which she was roasting quite merrily.

Well, she was wailing in agony, but the fire was having the time of its life, as were the centaurs, who were proceeding to dance around her using wild gestures, similar to those performed by the members of the 'Riverdance' troupe, the New Zealand National Rugby team, and/or people who have a lot of ants crawling over them, occasionally shooting glances of sweet revenge in Umbridge's direction. So it was a very interesting performance to watch, although it is not recommended by the Bureau of Wizarding Travel to attend these rituals for the high 'you will be eaten' factor. Umbridge gave another high-pitched squeal as Magorian, the undisputed leader of the centaurs, poured a sweet chili marinade over her.

A whiff of sweet chili spit-roasted Dolores wafted under Fudge's nose. His stomach grumbled in hunger. _Gee, that does smell good … __No! No! I will not__ find roasted Dolores appetising!  _

The spit turned over once more as Magorian spilled the last of the marinade over her front. In the midst of the flames, Umbridge spotted Fudge running like mad from his pursuers. Grawp, it seemed, had quite an advantage in his height – he was almost able to catch Fudge with every three strides. However, our slippery friend managed to slide out of his grip each time. It was probably the sweat running mad down his overly large body; Grawp had to constantly wipe his hands on his tunic roaring, 'Slimy, Hermy!' and whenever he realised that Hermione was nowhere to be found, he would cry, 'Hagger! Where Hermy?' Hermione, upon remembering her last confrontation with Grawp, had wisely decided to sit this one out. However, she eagerly followed the chase with the aid of her Omnioculars, Ron and Harry sitting beside her on the top of the Astronomy Tower, doing likewise. 

Anyhow, as soon as Umbridge spotted Fudge, who, in her honest opinion, ran like a girl, she squeaked in her poisonous, honey-glazed tones, 'Cornelius, save me!' Unfortunately (for her, in any case), the spit was turned over once more and so she was unable to see whether Fudge had heard her. 

He had not. He had enough troubles of his own without worrying about his Senior-Undersecretary-cum-Hogwarts-High-Inquisitor-cum-Headmistress – like trying to stay alive, for instance.

As he ran onwards, perspiring enough to fill the Hogwarts lake five-fold, a faint Scottish voice whispered through the trees: _If you do doubt your courage or your strength, come no further, for death awaits you all with nasty, big, pointy teeth._ Whoever it was, he couldn't be talking about the little bunny rabbit that was chasing him, hopping along quite quickly on all four feet – it was, after all, just a harmless little bunny. Cute, really. Whatever this horrible creature was, though, he had no desire to encounter it. He had enough problems with large teeth as it was, he thought, shuddering as he heard giant pincers snapping behind him.

Looking down, wheezing heavily, he stared at the rabbit once more, noticing for the first time its rather nasty, big, pointy teeth. With a high-pitched squeal that was very out of character for him (he usually just shrieked and fainted), he kicked the rabbit out of the way just as it reared up to nip him on the ankles, and heard a loud roar of disapproval from the creatures behind him. What did they want him to do? Lie down and let it kill him? 

Well, actually, yes; that was _exactly what they wanted. _

His robe billowed erratically behind him as he frantically ran through the trees; they had been torn to shreds as they snagged onto everything in sight, a prime example of the impracticality of robes. Suddenly, Fudge was blinded by a bright light. He stumbled, his vision clearing just before Grawp had another chance to grab hold of him. He couldn't believe his eyes. Sunlight! He broke into a wide grin, the terror that had been running rampant within him dissipated; he was going to survive! Only a few more feet! Foolishly, he glanced over his shoulder and stuck his tongue out at his angry pursuers, feeling giddy with elation at his soon-to-be-grasped freedom. 

'Oof!'

He grunted, winded as he smacked into a very hard, very metal object. Turning around, he found himself face-to-face with a car. But this was no ordinary car; this was a Ford Anglia. A blue, _feral Ford Anglia, to be precise, and its engine was revving in a way that did not seem very friendly at all. _

Backing away slowly, Fudge noticed the procession of magical creatures had stopped a fair way back, amused animalian expressions clear on their faces, as though preparing to watch a very entertaining performance. The engine revved dangerously once more, and the car lunged forward unexpectedly.

Fudge didn't have a chance; all dreams of sunlight, freedom and the hat sale he was planning to go the next day fled from his mind (possibly to join the Fact in the Caribbean). The car zoomed after him as he tried to run away from it. The creatures cheered and shouted joyously, giving the car tremendous encouragement as it accelerated and braked alternatively, slowly cornering him.

Within moments it was all over. Fudge released a long, horrified scream as the car finally tired of playing its cat-and-mouse game, driving over the top of his portly body. The creatures cheered, and in the distance a muffled roar of applause sounded. Watching from a giant bewitched screen placed in the middle of the Quidditch pitch, the Hogwarts students were eagerly following the chase, screaming with delight as the Ford Anglia succeeded in running him over again. And again. And again. Soon, Fudge resembled a lumpy pancake, of which further details shall not be revealed. Just use your imagination. Think lime-green, black pinstripe and purple.

There was but one person within the crowd who was not joining in with the deafening shouts of enthusiasm. Ludo Bagman glowered at the screen, clearly unhappy with the result. 

'Damn!' he hissed to himself, rising to leave the stands. 'I was _so_ sure the rabbit would get him!'


	7. 19 Scores of Harry Potter fans trample h...

Ways in Which Cornelius Fudge Meets an Untimely Demise

**# 19 Scores of Harry Potter fans trample him in a rampage after reading _Goblet of Fire (and _Order of the Phoenix_)._**

Cornelius Fudge, Minister for Magic, was stressed. Actually stressed isn't quite the right word - on the verge of screaming like a raving lunatic was more like it. He'd had a disastrous morning, where nothing had seemed to go right. And worst of all, his hat had been destroyed in a botched up assassination attempt by an unknown assailant. The deceased hat was now buried in a private resting place; Fudge hoped it reached hat heaven all right. Still, he was having trouble composing himself – his grief was simply too great. He needed something to calm him down.

_Ah!_ he thought to himself, _I know just the thing!_

He crossed the room rather quickly to the portrait of Oswald the Obese that directly faced one of the large windows on the far side of the room. Oswald grinned at him whilst in the middle of gorging himself on a roast dinner, Irish style. His enormous plate was laden to overflowing with a large roast chicken, mashed potato, fried potato, baked potato and peas. Fudge felt faintly sick at the sight and reminded himself yet again to remove it as he swung the painting on its hinges, revealing the secret vault just as Oswald helped himself to a large tankard of Butterbeer and burped unceremoniously.  

Fudge drew his wand from within his robes and performed a complicated spell to disarm the wards. Twiddling his fingers, he impatiently wrenched the door open just as it had begun to open of its own accord, and rummaged about in the space until he found what he was looking for.  Hurriedly, he uncorked the bottle of red currant rum as the vault door closed by itself and the portrait swung back to its original resting place. Putting the bottle to his lips, he downed the precious alcohol like a man dying of dehydration, moaning contentedly.

He almost choked as he caught sight of the left hand door opening a crack and a head with bright red hair and horned rim glasses peering around its edge. It turned out to be none other than Percy Weasley. Fudge skilfully hid the bottle, now only a quarter full, behind his back, as the boy's eyes settled on Fudge, who coughed slightly and looked flustered.

_Ah, young Weasley_, Fudge thought as he motioned for Percy to come in. The boy shook his head.

'Minister Fudge, Mr Malfoy is still waiting for you outside. He says it's a matter that you will find "most interesting".'

'Thank you, Weasley,' Fudge replied. 'Tell Mr Malfoy I'll be with him in a moment.' Percy nodded and closed the door as quietly as he had opened it.

As soon as he was sure Percy wouldn't return, Fudge pulled the bottle from behind his back and took another hasty swig. _Lovely boy_, he mused. _Too bad he's the spawn of that Muggle lover. He was really quite wise to break off all contact from his family. God knows they have enough children to contend with – they probably don't notice they've lost one!_ Fudge smiled to himself and downed the rest of the bottle, fully recovered from his mini-nervous breakdown. He found if he didn't think about the deceased hat, there would be less of a chance of him bursting into tears. Banishing the bottle, he strode to the door and opened it, calling out to Daisy Stapleton, his personal secretary, who sat at her desk at the end of a short hallway from his office.__

'Daisy? You can tell Mr Malfoy I'm ready to see him.'

'There's no need,' drawled the voice of Lucius Malfoy. He rounded the corner from the waiting room and came into view, 'I'm here.' He turned to Daisy, who was filing some documents. 'Thank you for the lovely cup of tea, Mrs Stapleton.'

Daisy looked up from her filing. A domineering woman who could have given Minerva McGonagall a run for her money in ferocity and fashion sense, she gave Lucius a stern nod. 

Lucius turned and walked down the short hallway lined with portraits of past Ministers, several of whom scowled as he walked past. Fudge opened the door wider to let Lucius in and, closing the door, led him to a purple-upholstered chair in front of his desk.

Lucius sat down, playing absentmindedly with the head of his cane. Fudge sat in his chair behind his desk, fiercely wishing he had his hat on him. Although Lucius was here for a man-to-man chat, in actual fact, it was a man-and-hat-to-man-and-cane chat. Either way, Lucius Malfoy was the wizard with the funkier fashion accessory, and Fudge felt rather put out by it.

'So, Lucius, what can I do for you?' he said, lacing his fingers together and placing his elbows on the desktop.

'Well,' Lucius began lazily, 'it's only a short visit, Cornelius; I'm off to Diagon Alley for a spot of shopping with Narcissa and Draco – Draco has had a large growth spurt over the year.' His eyes wandered over the room, hovering for a moment on Oswald the Obese, who had begun piling his plate with éclairs, puddings and trifles. 'I was down there yesterday, in fact,' he continued, bringing his attention back to Fudge, 'when I spotted something rather interesting in Madam Malkin's – needless to say she was rather surprised when I decided to buy it …' He trailed off, watching the portly man intently.

'What did you buy?' Nothing caught Fudge's attention more than a good buy at Madam Malkin's.

Lucius tossed his long blond hair over his shoulder and smiled at Fudge, though the expression of warmth didn't quite reach his eyes. He reached into his robes and drew out a medium-sized package wrapped in brown paper. 'Here it is,' he said. 'Take a look for yourself.' He smiled again, clearly amused.

Fudge eagerly grabbed the package from Lucius' outstretched hands and tore the wrapping. He gasped in surprise and held the item out in front of him.

'Do you like it, Cornelius?' Lucius asked, turning his attention from the flabbergasted man, frowning as he thought he spotted a split end in his glorious curtain of hair. He moved into the light for a closer examination.

'Like it?' Fudge gushed, astonished. 'I _love_ it!' He stared in amazement at the lime-green bowler hat in his arms. He looked up at Lucius. 'Lucius, you _shouldn't_ have!' Lucius smiled distractedly, still engrossed in his hair.

Fudge gave a delighted cry and tried the hat on, jumping up and staring at himself in a mirror behind his desk. It was a perfect fit! This hat was the most beautiful, the most _exquisite_ of all he had ever owned. He would keep this one in _perfect_ condition, he vowed.

A noise behind him brought him out of his trance. Lucius, having finishing his study of his white-gold tresses, stood and prepared to leave. He smoothed his tailored black robes and held his cane in the crook of his arm.

'Leaving already, Lucius?' Fudge asked, dismayed.

'Yes,' Lucius replied, 'I'm due to meet Narcissa and Draco in,' he looked at his watch, 'ten minutes.'

'Oh, ok then,' said Fudge. 'Send Narcissa my regards!'

'And the same to your good wife,' Lucius replied, nodding courteously. 

Lucius walked himself to the door leaving Fudge to fuss over his new hat. The new hat made Fudge forget about the one that had been damaged that morning, as he spent the rest of the day parading in front of the mirror, trying out different poses. He eventually decided that the jaunty angle look suited him best and wore it thus as he Apparated home. Needless to say, his wife, Mary-Sue was unimpressed to discover the existence of a new hat, and did the only thing she could think of –

She raised her wand she kept beside her. '_Accio_ Harry Potter fans!'

In an instant, Fudge was surrounded by a sea of disgruntled sneering faces. There was nowhere to turn – the number of fans extended to four villages beyond his home – and that was when they stood tightly packed together. There was a loud rumbling sound as the mumbling crowd parted and two girls stepped forward. The walls vibrated from the magnitude of the low murmurs.

'Cornelius Oswald Fudge,' the first girl announced, 'you are hereby condemned for the crimes of …' She trailed off, looking at her companion. 'Where's the list of crimes, Panderia?'

Panderia pulled a thick folder from her backpack and started to thumb her way through it. 'Lalia sent it to me this morning. It should be here … somewhere.' 

Auror_Lib sighed exasperatedly. 'And where _is_ Lalia Gariv?' she asked in annoyance. 'How typical - I knew she wouldn't be bothered showing up!'

'Yeah, she explained why when she owled me earlier - said a plot bunny attacked her,' Panderia supplied. 'You know how they are, nasty, pointy teeth and all … Oh, here's the list!' She pulled out a plastic slip crammed with pages marked "Fudge: Not to be Confused with Confectionary."

Auror_Lib took the proffered slip, impatiently yanking the papers from it. 'Ah, here. Ahem. Cornelius Oswald Fudge, you are hereby condemned for crimes against one Harry James Potter -' (there was much wailing and gnashing of teeth from the surrounding crowd) '- one Albus Brian Percival Wulfric Dumbledore, one A-' She paused, flipping through the bundles of pages in her hands. 'Well, generally against the entire Wizarding World,' she finished succinctly, tucking the pages away. 

Fudge stood, dumbfounded to say the least. Sweating profusely, he took his bowler hat off his head, and held it tightly to his chest. No way in the world was he going to give up his precious!

'This is a waste of time!' someone in the crowd yelled. 'Let's get the git!'

'YEAH!' the crowd agreed all the way to its perimeter miles away. 

'Wait!' Panderia cried out, holding up a hand anxiously. She paused as the crowd stared at her in astonishment. 'I have something to say to Fudge.' Auror_Lib gave a puzzled glance as Panderia walked over to Fudge. 'Down on your knees,' she commanded. Fudge was too terrified to resist. She grabbed his robes and shoved up the sleeve of one arm. 'This is for being an evil git who wouldn't believe Harry in _Goblet of Fire_!' she declared, and gave him a Chinese Burn.

'ARGH!' Fudge screamed in agony. The crowd whooped and cheered. Auror_Lib, a sly smile on her face, decided to follow Panderia's example. She walked up to Fudge and prised the bowler hat from his rigid fingers.

NO!' Fudge screamed. 'Not my new hat! _Anything_ but my new hat!' 

Auror_Lib simply grinned evilly. 'This is for being a git and a sodding twit in _Order of the Phoenix!' And with a tightly clenched fist, she punched a large hole through the top of the hat. She held it in the air above her head as the crowd applauded wildly._

'NO!' Fudge wailed, sobbing uncontrollably. 

'Now,' Auror_Lib addressed the crowd, 'it's your turn – _get him!'_

With a resounding roar the crowd lurched forward and Fudge was trampled upon in a frenzied rampage. 

Miles away from the happy lynching, in 12 Grimmauld Place, London, Harry Potter, Albus Dumbledore, Sirius Black, Remus Lupin, the eight Weasleys (bar Percy, of course), and other visitors to the headquarters crowded themselves around the Palantir Dumbledore had borrowed from his friend, Gandalf, watching the scene with unconcealed delight. Harry turned around to face Dumbledore.

'More happy customers,' the wise old man said happily. 'What's next on the list, Harry?'

Harry skimmed down the parchment he held in his hands entitled '50 Ways in Which Cornelius Fudge Meets an Untimely Death'. 'Umm, I think number 1's coming after this one,' he said. He looked up into Dumbledore's care-worn face. 'How on Earth does he keep on resurrecting himself?' he asked. 'He's worse than Voldemort!'

'Yes, indeed he is,' Dumbledore replied. 'That's politicians for you. This is a prime example of the wizard Machiavelli's Resurrection Spell being abused. Don't worry, Harry,' he reassured him with a benign smile, 'we still have forty-four more to go.'


	8. 1 He is killed by Voldemort because he d...

Ways in Which Cornelius Fudge Meets an Untimely Demise

**# 1 He is killed by Voldemort because he didn't believe the Dark Lord had returned. The twat.**

The stack of cards rested precariously upon sheets of important-looking parchment piled on the desk. Sweat glistened on Cornelius Fudge's brow as he stared at his almost completed masterpiece. Out of a deck of fifty-two cards, fifty-one were meticulously arranged to form a pyramid, and now with one card left to go, Fudge hardly dared to breathe.

He reached for the last card, its design depicting a caricature of an elderly wizard with twinkling bright blue eyes and half-moon glasses. Hesitating for a second, his outstretched hand detouring to a glass of water from which he took a large gulp, fervently wishing it was a large tankard of red currant rum. 

He studied the cards in front of him, drumming his fingers lightly on the tabletop before his eyes wandered to the hat he had tossed aside casually on his desk when he had arrived at work earlier. Absentmindedly, he reached for it and stroked the lime-green material, feeling the nerves in the pit of his stomach subside. Unfortunately, the butterflies decided to take advantage of the nerves' departure, flittering and fluttering about erratically, giggling maniacally and flapping wings of garishly bright colours that would have blinded if seen by the average eye. 

Feeling worse than before, Fudge placed the hat on his head. He pursed his lips, annoyed at his shaking hands; this was not what he needed right now. _Calm down, Fudge, calm down, he thought to himself._

Staring at his creation, he felt a sudden burst of courage and picked up the remaining card. Gingerly he gripped it, the cartoon Dumbledore smiling benignly at him, and slowly and carefully placed it on the topmost card. He froze as the pyramid shuddered slightly, a tip of a finger pressed lightly on the card. Licking his lips again, he released the card, watching in almost slow motion as it moved to rest against the card next to it. He relaxed; his masterpiece was complete. A wide smile grew on his face as he leaned back into his plush chair. 

At that exact moment, the large double doors of Fudge's office opened and closed with a loud, resounding bang. Fudge jumped in his seat with a high-pitched shriek. He released a louder screech as the cards exploded in a cloud of black ash and flames, setting the parchment they lay on alight. In the commotion, his bowler hat shot into the air, sailing over the fish tank on the left side of the room, its fishy inhabitants chuckling amongst themselves at the human's 'explosive' situation, having never before seen anything like it. Three seconds later, they burst into laughter as they noticed Fudge's dilemma, never in their lives witnessing such a sight.

Assuming fish have three-second memories. Which this author obviously does.

Although a study in England proves this false. At least we know our hard-earned taxes are going towards useful causes.

Moving on…

Fudge frantically tried to put out the small fire on his desk with his purple cloak, realising in alarm that the parchment contained an important treaty from the Bulgarian Minister for Magic.

'Damn, damn, damn, and bollocks!' he swore, sucking on a burnt finger. He threw away the smouldering cloak, grabbed a jug of water and poured its contents over the flames. A cloud of smoke and burnt parchment blew into his face, and he coughed fiercely, closing his eyes against the ashes. 

'_Hem hem. You have something called a wand, you know,' a voice giggled sweetly. _

Fudge unscrunched his eyes, but couldn't see the person who had spoken to him. As the smoke dissipated, he found Dolores Umbridge, standing there, arms folded in front of her. Her toad-like face creased in a semi-amused expression as she looked him up and down as though he were a tasty fly she planned to gobble up.

'Uh … Dolores!'

'Yes, that does happen to be my name, Cornelius,' Dolores drawled in her honeyed tones. 'I'm surprised you remember, what, with your attention span!' She smiled, almost making Fudge gag from the sight of it, and giggled like a twitty schoolgirl.

'Of course I remember!' Fudge said stupidly, trying to sweep the ashes out of his clothing. As he brushed the soot from his hair, he noticed his hat was missing and turned a complete circle to find it. Yes, in his chair. Quite talented Fudge is, when he doesn't realise what he's doing. 

'Oh for heaven's sake, Cornelius, look at yourself – what have you been doing, darling?' Dolores pulled her tiny wand from the depths of her flower-patterned robes and conjured a full-length mirror. Fudge almost had a heart attack at his appearance. 

His dark grey hair was now pitch-black, his face blackened as it had suffered the full impact of the explosion. His scarlet tie was riddled with scorch marks, and his purple cloak, now lying in a puddle on the floor, was still smouldering lightly, a thin curl of grey smoke rising in the air. All in all, Fudge had the appearance of a chimney-sweep and probably would have said as much had he known of the existence of these, which of course, he didn't. Muggle Studies had never been his forte.

Recovering from his initial shock, Fudge drew his wand from his pocket, and waved it over himself, muttering, '_Scourgify, _' and then proceeded to admire his now clean and dry self in the mirror Dolores had set on the floor. He sat down in his chair, gazing over the burnt parchment now scattered amongst the cards that had repaired themselves. 

Dolores sneered at the twinkle-eyed Dumbledores. 'You still have these, I see.' She picked one up and sniffed disdainfully as the cartoon blew her a kiss. 

'Well, they _are_ special edition Exploding Snap cards, you know! They only made fifty decks of these.'

'Yes, I know, Cornelius, darling,' she replied smoothly, 'but since you have publicly _denounced Dumbledore, don't you think it would seem … _odd _for you to own this specific version?' she said, speaking slowly as though he were five years old. _

'Oh, yes. I, uh … forgot about that.'

'Evidently,' Dolores sniffed, clearly unimpressed. Shethrew the card back down and hefted her tiny body onto the corner of the desk, disregarding Fudge's disapproving stare.

'There are things called chairs, you know, Dolores, dear. They are generally used to sit upon.'

She smiled at him, fixing up her skirt, deliberately ignoring his admonishment.

'Dolores, what is this all about? I was in the middle of something important.'

'Yes, I can see how playing Exploding Snap will save the Wizarding World,' she said sardonically. 'Have you seen this morning's _Daily Prophet_?' She reached into her robes and pulled out a copy of the paper, tossing it on top of the wet, smouldering mess.

Glancing at the newspaper, he sighed almost exasperatedly. 'Yes, I've seen it. Gets better every day, what with discrediting the Potter boy and Dumblefool, don't you agree?' Dolores tittered at Fudge's blatant dislike of the young boy-who-vanquished-Lord-Mumblemumble-at-age-one, and the old man-who-Lord-Mmmmfffphh-was-afraid-of. 'The Wizengamot even forced him to resign!' Fudge continued, a smile spreading across his face. 'Of course I already knew about the Elders' decision, but they insisted on holding a private meeting. Still, I wish something could be done to be rid of the boy once and for all. He _is_ such a nuisance, creating all those tall tales of Lord … You-Know-His-Name coming back and all!' he said, slamming his fists on his desk.

'Yes, yes, Cornelius, I know what you mean,' Dolores agreed, a large smile spreading once again over her toad-like features. 'And you know what you need to do.' 

'Start practicing my cross-stitch more often?' Fudge cowered under Umbridge's glare. That was clearly not the response she had been after. 'Uh, I mean to say, no. What do I need to do?'

Dolores hopped off the desk and sidled around it, staring intently into his blank face, and tutted. 'You need to _get rid of Dumbledore_,' she reminded him in a low voice, seating herself in his lap. 'Remember? Trying to usurp your Ministerialship?'

'Oh yes … yes, that's right.' He mulled over Dolores' words, noticing for the second time as he scratched his scalp that his hat was missing. He jumped up and began to search feverishly for it. Dolores was thrown ungracefully to the floor with a loud thump.

'Dolores, you haven't seen my hat by any chance, have you?' Fudge asked, rummaging through his bookshelf. 

'No,' Dolores replied huffily, rubbing her posterior, as Fudge darted all over the office like a bewildered jack rabbit. A moment later, she heard Fudge give a delighted squeak as he found the hat perched precariously over the fish tank and snatched it up just before it sank into its depths. The fish were greatly disappointed, having started a cult to the 'Large Green Thingie in the Sky', however, they soon forgot about it. Well, not exactly. They _hadn't really forgotten about it – three months later, in fact, the fishy elders would peer critically at the disrespectful young members of the tank, sigh, and reminisce fondly about the good old days when they knew how to start a proper cult._

Triumphantly, Fudge jammed the hat on his head and walked back toward Dolores. She now stood beside desk and was openly glaring at him.

_Oh great_, Fudge thought, _what did I do now? He always seemed to make the women in his life angry, and he was never sure why. _

Fudge sat in his chair again, cowering in Dolores' powerful glower. Tentatively, he pulled the hat off his head and began to clean the dust off it, muttering darkly as he found a large hole on the top, burned away from the impact of the Exploding Snap cards. He swivelled his chair around and _Accioed his hat cleaner and brush from the cabinet behind him. Turning around, he generously applied Mrs Skower's All-Purpose Hat Cleaner to the brush and scrubbed away, clenching his jaw in frustration at the poor state of his hat. He looked up at Dolores after failing to scrub off a particularly bad scorch mark._

'Dolores, look at my hat!' His face crumbled.

Dolores's glare vanished. She waddled over to Fudge, sitting on his lap again, softly stroking his face.

'Oh my poor Fudgie,' she crooned. 'Have the naughty cards damaged your hatty-kins? Let me see it.'

Fudge handed her the hat. 'Be careful with it, please …' he pleaded. 

'Of course I will,' she soothed. Dolores examined it for a few moments, turning it over and over in her hand. 

'I'm sorry, Cornelius. I don't think the hat will make it.' Fudge's face crumpled even further; his lip trembled. 'Come now, Cornelius! Don't cry.' She put her arms around him.

'B-but, my _hat!' Fudge buried his head in Dolores's chest. She stroked his hair._

'Shh, shh, it's going to be OK,' she placated. She glanced up at the clock on the wall behind the desk. 'Cornelius?' she whispered.

'Hmm?' 

'I have to go.'

'Do you have to?' Fudge peered into her face, his own streaked with tears. He looked at her with puppy eyes.

'Yes, I have something very important to do.' She stood up, smoothing her robes. Fudge watched her with his red rimmed eyes. 'I'll talk to you later.' Kissing him on top of his head, Dolores walked to the door, opening them and slipped out, the ruined hat still in her hands, leaving Fudge to stare at the space where she had once stood.  

Later that afternoon Fudge decided to leave work early and take a walk down Diagon Alley. This is what he told Daisy, his secretary, in case anyone should look for him (which wasn't likely), but in actual fact he was on a mission to procure a new hat. He just couldn't function without one. That was the sad, sad truth of the matter. 

He stood inconspicuously in front of Madam Malkin's Robes for Every Occasion. Well, as inconspicuous as you can get when you're dressed in purple boots, a bottle-green suit and a purple cloak. He gave passer-by's a shifty look before dashing into the shop. 

Ten minutes later, Fudge exited the shop with a smile stretching from ear to ear and a new bowler hat propped on his head. Inside the shop, Madam Malkin and her assistant laughed wildly, counting the obscene amount of Galleons and Sickles in their hands, shaking their heads and wiping the tears from their eyes.

Fudge fixed up his hat as he walked down the cobblestone street, adjusting it until he was satisfied with the 'right look'. He eventually decided that the jaunty angle look suited him best and wore it thus as he Apparated home. He found his wife, Mary-Sue, lounging on the couch in their bedroom, reading a book.

'Look, my dear – a new hat!'

Mary-Sue was not impressed. 'Not _another_ bloody hat!' she muttered. She stood gracefully, marking her page and placing _Living with Gits: A Practical Guide on the couch arm. She drew her wand. Fudge, who continued to prance around the room like an entrant from 'Who Wants to be a Supermodel' (who never made it past the first round, of course) didn't notice his wife's odd action._

'Fudge,' she said, 'I don't know _how_ your wife puts up with you.'

Fudge halted, mid-pose. 'Mary-Sue, what are you talking about? You _are my wife.' He looked her up and down. 'At least last time I checked, you were, and you remember that, huh?' He winked provocatively; Mary-Sue groaned._

'Ah, that is where you are mistaken!' She waved her wand over herself. '_Finite Incantatem.' _

Slowly, she began to change. Fudge's eyes widened in fear, shock, terror and even disbelief, as his beautiful wife grew several inches, lost her white-blonde hair to an even white baldness, and her luminescent eyes that reflected all colours of the metallic rainbow turned a deep crimson.

The Dark Lord who all fear, yet fanfiction authors love to mock, stood in her place. Fudge goggled, his mouth wide open, frozen to the spot.

'Hello Cornelius,' Lord Thingy purred, smiling malevolently. 'So, I haven't returned?'

Fudge spluttered, but was unable to produce anything more than incoherent toddlerish babble, which sped up considerably as Lord What's-his-name raised his wand at him.

'Say goodbye to the fic readers, Cornelius.'

'G-g-g-g-g-'

'Getting past the first letter would be helpful, you know,' the Dark Prince of the Wizarding World advised.

'You try to speak coherently when faced with a resurrected Evil Wizard!' Fudge retorted. He blinked, as did the Snake-Faced Wizard of Doom. 'Oh, so I can speak now?' he added, staring at the ceiling with his hands on his hips. There was no reply. 

'Cornelius, I don't like to be kept waiting.' His Evilness smiled almost benignly. 'And it looks like the Author agrees – she's running out of epithets for me.'

'What? Oh, yes. What was it I needed to say?' Fudge pulled out a sheaf of parchment from the belt of his trousers. Lord Madjghdlfjgh sighed impatiently. 

'Dammit, Fudge,' he said. 'I just got the 'evil factor' down pat!' He crossed his arms huffily, tapping his foot. 'Why do you _always_ do this to me?!'

Fudge ignored him. '"Ah, that's where you are mistaken,"' he mumbled.

'That's _my line,' the Crimson-Eyed One snapped. Fishing out his own script, he flipped through the pages until he found the one he was looking for. 'Here,' he said, pointing halfway down the page, 'this is where we're up to!'_

'Oh, yes,' Fudge said, looking a bit flustered. 'So we'll start from your line then, shall we?'

The Supreme Bringer of Fear and Terror rolled his eyes and tucked the script back in his robes. _Sodding git_, he thought.

'Say-good-bye-to-the-fic-rea-ders-Cor-ne-li-us,' he said in a monotone.

Fudge looked from the face of the albino figure in front of him to the lazily-raised wand aimed at his chest.

'G-g-goodbye,' he stuttered.

The Lord of All Things Dark and Terrible's smile returned. '_Avada Kedavra!'_

In a flash of bright green light, Fudge's portly figure crumpled in a heap on the floor.

'Oh thank Merlin! Finally, I can use my name in peace!' Lord Voldemort exclaimed. He whipped out the daily diary he kept next to his copy of the script and opened a marked page. 'Good,' he said, 'just in time to visit Bella for a spot of tea and crumpets.'

He Disapparated.__


	9. 26 He meets the Witch in Hansel and Gret...

Ways in Which Cornelius Fudge Meets an Untimely Demise

**# 26 He meets the Wicked Witch in Hansel and Gretel**

Once upon a time, in the imagination of a warped Uni student with too much time on her hands, a woodcutter, his wife and their two young, fully-grown children lived in a thatched one-bedroom cottage in the middle of nowhere (possibly Adelaide). The family was at the lower end of the poverty line, the woodcutter having been unable to find work, despite the fact he was surrounded by trees. He was, however, very skilled at making daisy chains, being in the process of creating one a mile long to get himself into the _Ye Olde Ghinesse Booke of Rekordes_. However, daisy-chains, and the method of their creation, have nothing to do with this tale. All daisy-chain enthusiasts will have to look elsewhere. Sorry.

The characters which concern us are, in fact, the two children of the unemployed woodcutter and his wife. This offspring, for some unknown reason, had been born fully-grown and fully-clothed – much to the agony of Mrs Woodcutter, a small, plump woman who really did not deserve the unfortunate fruits of her union with her husband.

On this particular day, an unusually warm one for April, the woodcutter's wife was standing on a wobbly stool, scrounging around in a bare cupboard for food. She couldn't even find a bone for the scrawny-looking mutt that had shown up at the door that morning.

Glaring at the dog, she muttered in frustration, 'Who do you think I am?'

If the dog could speak, it would have said that at this very moment, she resembled Mother Hubbard. It was the headwear that did it. Stupid mop hats. However, upon glancing into the very dark, very dusty back corner of the cupboard (when your nearest neighbours live a week or two's walk away – though less by broom – you tend not to give a damn about hygiene) Mrs W pounced upon a mouldy half loaf of dry bread where there had been none before. 

_How odd_, she thought, holding the loaf like a precious jewel. Jumping off the stool, she set the loaf in the middle of the kitchen table and, shooing away the dog, stuck her head out of the open window.

'Cornelius! Dolores! Lunch is ready!'

Two heads popped out from behind a large tree. The first, a girl, had a squat, toad-like face and short, mousy brown hair held back by an Alice band. The other, a boy, had a lime-green bowler hat topping off his greying curls. Mrs W was damned if she knew where her children had procured these fashion accessories, but, alarmingly enough, they seemed to suit them rather nicely. Cornelius in particular seemed rather attached to his hat and would never let go of it, not even during bath time. _Probably _stole them, the little brats_, she concluded as her children toddled inside. _

*

That evening, after Cornelius and Dolores had been sent to bed, the Woodcutters had an important discussion.

'This is it, Peggy,' the Woodcutter said, putting his pipe in his mouth. He was a tall man with reddish hair and birch-wood rimmed glasses. Reclining in his chair at the table, he sucked at the pipe thoughtfully, not noticing 1) the pipe wasn't lit, and 

2) there was no tobacco to be found.

'What is it, dear?' Mrs Woodcutter busied herself at the kitchen bucket, preparing to wash the dishes. The Woodcutter regarded his wife carefully.

'We can't afford to keep the children anymore.'

Mrs Woodcutter froze. As her husband watched, she quickly recovered and picked up a dish, washing it meticulously. She then put it aside to dry, wiped her hands on her patched skirts and joined her husband at the table, having finished the washing up. Tears glistened in her eyes.

'Do you know how long I've been waiting for you to say that, John?' She hugged the Woodcutter tightly. 

With much effort, the Woodcutter removed himself from his wife's fierce grip. 'Well, it's settled then. How about we dump them in the forest tomorrow? It's best not to waste any time.'

'Sounds good to me.' The couple laughed maliciously.

Of course, this story wouldn't be what it is if our two antagonistic protagonists knew nothing of their parents' sinister plot. As we all know, they were tucked safely in bed. However, as fate would have it, their bed was under the table where their parents sat. 

'Did you hear that, Dolores?' Cornelius asked. 'Mother and Father are –'

'I heard. I'm sitting right beside you, you know,' Dolores replied huffily, although she trembled slightly.

'Well, you don't have to act so huffy. I'm just recapping it for dramatic effect.'

'Stick to your crocheting, Nelly, you're a lot better at that.'

'Look, you're just jealous, ok? Just because _I_ won first prize at the Annual Haberdashery picnic, doesn't mean -'

'_Hem, hem. Shouldn't we be working out a plan to get back home?' Dolores asked, pinching him on the arm._

'Ow! Yes, I guess so. Why don't I just drop bits of bread Mother will give us tomorrow on the ground and make a trail?' Cornelius suggested without thought for the obvious cliché.

'What about stones?'

'What?'

'Won't birds eat the bread you drop on the ground?'

'Of course not, don't be silly. It's fairy tale – we'll make it home whatever we do,' Cornelius said, slightly annoyed.

'All right, you're the boss,' Dolores said, sighing. 

They started violently as the table above them shook. 

'Shut up, the both of you!' the Woodcutter bellowed, thumping his fist on the table a second time. Cornelius and Dolores scurried around, trying to avoid their father's pointy boots. 'Cornelius, if you and Dolores are going to formulate a plan to find your way home, at least _whisper_ for Merlin's sake! Now, go to sleep!'

*

Bright and early the next day, before the cock crowed, Cornelius and Dolores were roughly awoken by their parents, who shoved another half loaf of bread into their hands, procured by some mysterious means, mostly likely a plot device, and pushed them out of the door, pointing vaguely towards the forest. The two sleepy children yawned and toddled obediently towards the forest where, in about five minutes, they were completely lost. It was one of those forests. You know, the type that fairy-tale characters always lose themselves in. Tells you a lot about fairy-tale characters, really.

Back at the cottage, the cock crowed. In the front yard, the Woodcutters sang and danced gleefully. 

'Free at last! Free at last! Thank Merlin Almighty, we're free at last!'

*

'Nelly, where are we?' Dolores asked, her voice trembling. She held onto Cornelius's sleeve with a grip not even an industrial set of pliers could prise off. 

'We're in the forest,' Cornelius replied.

'Really. You don't say.'

'I just did.'

Dolores sighed exasperatedly, rolling her eyes. _What a git_, she thought. She grimaced as her stomach grumbled. 

'Nelly, do you still have that bread on you?' she asked.

'Yep – here you go,' he said, handing it over.

Dolores broke off a small piece and popped it in her mouth. She chewed thoughtfully as they made their way through the trees.

'Mother and Father must have given us quite a bit of bread,' she remarked.

'What makes you say that?' Cornelius asked absentmindedly, his gaze following the path of a bluebird that was soaring past.

'Because of the bread trail you've been making.' 

Cornelius froze. 

'You _have_ been leaving a trail, haven't you?' Dolores's voice grew tight, and notched itself about an octave higher that usual, which was quite the feat. Cornelius refused to make eye contact with her. 'Merlin's beard,' she said in her normal voice, which was just as high-pitched, 'you _are_ a complete and utter twat! How are we supposed to get home now, Mr Sodding Git?' 

'How am I supposed to know? Look, let's just keep walking; we'll either manage our own way out of the forest, or bump into someone and ask for directions.' Cornelius tapped the top of his head, making sure his hat was still perched there. If anything happened to his precious hat, he wouldn't know what to do! With a determined look on his face, he began to walk faster. 

'I have a bad feeling about this,' Dolores muttered to herself, vaguely wondering why she thought of green, speech-impaired muppets.

*

Night crept up faster than a lethifold. Cornelius and Dolores trudged aimlessly through the forest, having found no one to give them directions. They clutched each other in fear as they heard strange night time sounds, the kind that nocturnal animals make when they wake up and haven't had their coffee yet. All of a sudden there shined a white light in the distance. Anxiously, they crept towards it, finding a small thatched cottage in a clearing.

'Look, Nelly! Home!' Dolores cried. She released Cornelius's arm and began to run forward, but he dragged her backwards.

'No,' he whispered. 'Look carefully.'

Dolores did.

All she saw was a little thatched cottage in a clearing surrounded by a forest, and a small pen with a few chickens dotted about.

'Yes, I see it. And?'

'It's not home.' Cornelius's eyes remained transfixed on the house.

'What makes you say that?' Dolores asked, annoyed.

'Because we don't live with bears.'

Dolores started. 'What?!' She peered into the gloom. By golly, Cornelius was right! Walking through the front entrance of the cottage were three bears – a Father bear, a Mother bear, and a little Baby bear.

Cornelius and Dolores waited for the bears to disappear through the tree-line opposite them before they breathed easily.

'_Bears_,' Dolores said softly, in a kind of trance. 'How'd you like that?' She almost didn't notice Cornelius walk straight past her and towards the bears' house.

'Nelly,' she hissed, 'are you out of your mind? It's a bear den!'

Cornelius stopped and turned around to face her. 'I'm hungry!' he whined. 'And I can smell something nice.'

'And you feel like committing a crime at the same time?' Dolores asked, her eyebrows raised contemptuously.

'I'm _desperately_ hungry.'

'Oh, all right then.'

They walked tentatively towards the cottage and, once inside, followed the wonderful smell, passing a room containing three rocking chairs, and found three bowls of porridge on a table in the middle of the sparsely furnished kitchen. What? Can't people (or bears) eat porridge at night?

'Food!' they chorused, and attacked them greedily with spoons lying next to the bowls.

'Ow! `Is wun's `oo `ot!' Cornelius said, waving a hand uselessly in front of his burning mouth. He spat out the scalding cereal.

Dolores shuddered. 'And this one's too cold!' She pushed the bowl away from her.

'Let me `ave it den,' Cornelius said, and took a bite. 'Ahh …' he muttered in relief.

They turned to the last bowl and cautiously dug their spoons in, each taking a small bite, sighing contentedly and not speaking until the bowl lay empty.

A soft footstep startled them out of their porridge-lusting reverie. Looking up, they found a young girl with yellow-gold locks standing in the doorway. They clinked softly as a breeze floated in behind her.

'Say, do you live here?' she asked.

'No,' Dolores replied, 'we came for the porridge.'

'Oh,' said the girl, 'it's only … I'm so frightfully tired; I just wanted a place to sit for only a moment …'

'Well,' said Cornelius, 'we noticed a couple of rocking chairs in the living room. Maybe you could use one of those.'

The girl smiled. 'Why thank you, kind sir!'

'Not at all,' Cornelius replied. He seemed quite taken with this example of feminine beauty in front of him. He shook his head roughly. 'Come, Dolores, we must be off.' Good night, Miss … er …'

'Claire. Claire Gildlox.'

'Come on, Nelly,' Dolores urged. 'Nice to meet you, Claire,' she added, following Cornelius through the door. It wasn't until they had been walking for about fifteen minutes when they heard a high-pitched scream.

'I guess _Goldilocks introduced herself to the homeowners,' Dolores smirked. Still, they hurried as far as they could from the bears' house, stopping only when exhaustion knocked them over the head with a heavy mallet._

*

Birds chirped merrily, and the morning sun shone through patches in the canopy of the forest as Cornelius and Dolores continued their journey through the forest.

'Tra la la la la,' Dolores sang happily, swinging her basket of goodies as her red cloak billowed behind her in the light breeze.

'Uh, Dolores?' Cornelius asked, confused. 'Where did you get those from?'

'Oh, there was some girl a while back who thought this wolf was her grandmother. I bet her cloak and basket that it wasn't. Boy, you should've seen the teeth on that wolf!'

'All the better to eat her with?' Cornelius said mildly.

'Why yes, actually.'

Cornelius sighed; Dolores could be so trying sometimes. 

'So what's in the basket?' he asked. 'Anything to eat? I'm starving.' Before Dolores could react, Cornelius snatched the basket from her. There was a brass label with _Property of R. R. Hood engraved on it._

'Hey, that's mine!' she panted, trying to wrench it from his grip. In their tug of war, the handle broke apart, throwing them on opposite sides of the path. 

'Now look what you've done!' Dolores screeched. 

Cornelius shrugged, rubbing his ankle. Something caught his eye, but before he could investigate further, Dolores snatched the basket and opened it, her mouth falling open in shock as she peered inside.

'There's nothing in here! That girl was a liar – that's false advertising!' She stormed off and sat at the foot of a nearby tree, throwing the basket with so much force that it bounced as it hit the ground, and the object that had caught Cornelius's eye flew into the air. He craned his head, following its course and caught it with precision, although his hat fell off with the effort. Cornelius grunted and dusted his hat before replacing it on his head and concentrating on the piece of parchment in his hand.

'Dolores, you'd better look at this.'

'What?' Dolores picked herself up and waddled to Cornelius's side. He handed her the parchment.

_Whoever may finde this baskette please send it to The Wikkid Witche, Gingerbread House._

_Thank ewe._

'Maybe we can ask her for directions,' Dolores suggested. 'But which way is the Gingerbread House?'

'I think it's over there.' Cornelius pointed down the path ahead of him.

'How do you know?'

He nodded a lime-green capped head to his left. 'Because that's where the sign post says it is.'

And indeed, there was a lone signpost with two arrows standing in the dark forest. In all probability, the signpost had strayed from its herd and had stayed where it was, hoping one day to be reclaimed. In the meantime, it made the best of its sad, forlorn situation. One arrow faced the direction Cornelius pointed, with the words "To the Gingerbread House" freshly painted in bright letters, while the other, facing the opposite direction, its letters fading from exposure and neglect, read "Way Out of the Forest." It's a common mistake to disregard that arrow. No, really.

Picking up the basket, Cornelius and Dolores headed off in the direction of the Gingerbread House, not realising the horrors that awaited them.

*

It was architecturally stunning, a concoction of bright, well-made sweets covering every square-inch, from the jellybean chimney top to the lollypop petunias in the flowerbeds, although who in their right mind would build a house out of sugar is a question worth considering. Either the homeowner frequently partakes in the use of recreational drugs, or they are just insane. On the other hand, they may be extremely clever, having completed a number of gourmet cooking classes specialising in desserts and sugar decorating, so just get off their backs, ok?

All in all, however, it must be said that the as-yet-unnamed designer of the Gingerbread House had failed to consider the possibility of rain.

Cornelius and Dolores stood before the house, dumbfounded at the awesome feat of confectionary brilliance. It must be added that Cornelius drooled somewhat.

All of a sudden, the liquorice-rimmed front door opened with a creak, and out stepped a tall, stern-looking witch, her black hair in a tight bun. Her spectacles rested upon an absurdly large prosthetic nose that looked as though it would fall off at any second. Without warning, she began to wave her hands furiously over her head.

'Stop! Stop!' she cried, her face contorted in outrage. 'I object! I refuse to be a party to this nonsense!' She folded her arms obstinately. 'You _can't make me wear this abominable disguise!' The morning sun's hot rays peeked out behind a cloud and spread across her face, melting the nose somewhat. Receiving no other answer except taken aback stares from two oddly-dressed children, the witch resumed her stern look and, whilst holding the nose in place, addressed them._

'Well, what are you waiting for?' She gestured to the wonder of confectionary artistry behind her. 'Come in!' She gave Cornelius and Dolores an if-you-don't-obey-me-and-step-into-my-lovely-oven-er-house-I-won't-give-you-any-sweets glare that left no room for argument. 

Cornelius darted forward enthusiastically, mesmerised by the copious amounts of sugar in front of him. Dolores lunged forward and grabbed the back of his shirt. She felt a bit suspicious of this woman, who reminded her of a strict Transfiguration professor for some peculiar reason. 'Nelly, I don't think we should go in …' she whispered as her brother shook off her grip and took another step towards the witch, who was cackling very unconvincingly with an occasional disapproving glance at the sky.

'Why not?' Cornelius asked. 'She seems nice enough, plus she's offering us sweets!'

Dolores's mind ticked over for a minute. She glanced at back at the witch, who was unsuccessfully trying to mould her nose back into shape and muttering something about authors who deserve to be locked up forever in the deepest darkest dungeons. With a Blast-Ended Skrewt for company. The witch cackled genuinely. 

_Eh_, Dolores thought_. What could possibly happen? It's not like she's suffering from mental delusions about children as hearty meals._

She shrugged and followed Cornelius into the house, where the two unsuspecting children were predictably enslaved and thrown into a cage until further notice.

*

_One week later …_

A loud thump on the front door startled the Woodcutter as he threaded a daisy stalk into his almost mile-long chain. 

'Damn!' he cried as the delicate stalk snapped in two, rendering it useless. Dropping the ruined flower, he got up and stalked to the door, feeling very cross indeed.

Peering out of the window beside the door, he pushed the curtains aside. No one was there. _How odd, he thought. He creased his forehead in confusion and pulled on the latch that opened the front door, sticking his head out cautiously. No one. He was about to head back inside when something white caught his eye. He glanced down._

There was a newspaper, but judging by the slight yellow on the edges, it was about a week old.

Shrugging, he picked it up and brought it inside, laying it down on the kitchen table. 

'Peggy,' he called, 'did you subscribe to the _Proffett_ again?'

'Hmm?' the Woodcutter's wife replied, joining her husband in the kitchen. Her sleeves were rolled up, arms wet with soap suds. 'No, I didn't. Why?'

'Never mind.'

The Woodcutter sat down at the table, putting his feet up on a chair which immediately collapsed. The Woodcutter swore; he'd forgotten it was the broken chair he'd promised to mend the other day. It's just that daisy-chaining took up so much of his time lately. His wife grabbed a broom and began to sweep away the broken pieces as the Woodcutter sat on another chair, crossed his legs, reached for the paper and shook it open. He began to read, however, almost straight away he began to splutter madly.

'John? Dear?' his wife cried, dropping the broom and rushing to her husband's aid. 'What is it? What's the matter?' The Woodcutter stared at the paper, shocked and gibbering nonsense. He only calmed down as his wife wrenched the paper from his grip and led him to bed to lie down until he came to his senses.

She marched directly back to the kitchen, incensed and highly curious as to how a newspaper could produce such a reaction in her husband. Sitting in the now-vacant seat, she pulled the paper to her. Her eyes widened; she took in a sharp breath as she read.

_MISTERY DEATHES IN GINGERBREDE HOWSE_

_Missus Marthar Sweete, 76, woz yestrday the soul witnesse to xtraordinry eventes. The sprytlie auld woomin, desiner and manufaktrer of the infamoos Gingerbrede Howse last nite fownd herself at the mercie of two allegedlie fully-grown childrun. Wun, a mail named Cornelius, who Missus Sweete remembers wor a gastlie lyme-greene coloured bowler hat, the othr, a gurle bye the name of Dolores, reportedlie had toade-like feetures._

_Acording__ to Missus Sweete, the 'yungsters' forsd entrie into her home, interogaiting her fore owrs on ende, arsking her qwestions suche as "howe do we noe this is _reel_ shugar and not sum artifishal sweetner?" and "wot kinde of flavoring do you poot in the gum dropes?", all the wile freelie eeting the howse withoute Missus Sweete's permishun._

_Missus Sweete __sais__ she blacked out after the repeated grilins, and when she woke this morning, fownd the introodrs' delikatlie rosted and half-eten remayns on the bewtifullie set dinner taybl._

_'I don't knowe wot happend,' Missus Sweete sayd. 'I suppoze they juste _felle_ into the ovene…'_

And they all lived happily ever after. 

Well, _obviously_, except for Dolores, and Cornelius, but they had it coming.

And Claire, who decided to sue the fairy-tale industry for having grudges against poor, starving, innocent, blonde porridge lovers.

Oh, and a twig Cornelius snapped in two while trudging through the forest. 

And we can't forget the lonely signpost, which never did manage to find his herd. It lived out the rest of its existence directing lost travellers to Mrs Sweet's capable hands.

But apart from that, they all lived happily ever after!


End file.
